On the day the college acceptance letters arrived, my mom made three phone calls in a row. The first was to my grandmother: "Did the Carter family tombstone explode yet? ...Ah, it didn't? Then it must be emitting holy light! Go check it out right now!" The second was to my dad: "My daughter got into Columbia University! Near perfect SATs! Did your son even graduate? Oh, I almost forgot, your son couldn't even get into a decent high school, he's graduating from some trade school this year, right? Found a job yet? Ahahahaha." The third was to the town mayor, asking him to hang 100 banners across Main Street and broadcast the news over the town's radio system for three days and three nights. She also told him we were coming back to our hometown in a few days to throw a massive block party for everyone. Right now, I'm watching the town dogs feast on the leftovers from the party. I take a photo, post it on Facebook, and tag my half-brother. "Who says girls are worse than boys?" 1 My dad and mom came from the same small, rural town in the Midwest. They didn't have much education. First, they worked on an assembly line in a factory for two years—he was screwing in bolts, she was welding parts. Later, they started working on construction sites, installing aluminum windows. They had to find their own clients. Whether it was the scorching heat of July or the freezing cold of January, my mom and dad were always out on construction sites. It was exhausting. But those were the years they loved each other the most. They had goals. They had a shared future. They agreed that once they opened their own shop, they would start a family. A few years later, they saved up some money, opened a shop in a booming commercial district, and finally owned something of their own. My mom didn't care about skincare. She thought carrying an umbrella was a hassle, and she was too frugal to buy sunscreen. You know how it is. UV rays severely damage the skin. When other people look 19 at 24, my mom looked 30 at 24. When her skin looked 31 at the age of 24, she had me. The whole family was thrilled. My grandpa and grandma even came up with over 100 names for my parents to choose from. Unfortunately, they were all boys' names. My dad's favorite name was Hunter. Hunter Carter. He said he didn't have an education, so he wanted a son who would be an educated man. Nine months later, my mom gave birth to me. My grandpa and grandma's faces fell lower than a mule's. They stayed at the hospital for less than half a day before leaving. Before they left, they even took the roast chicken they had brought as a gift. My dad sighed heavily and stood on the hospital balcony, chain-smoking. When my mom told me this part of the story, she choked up several times. She said she suggested giving me the name Hunter anyway, that a girl could use that name too. My dad refused. 2 When did my mom realize my dad had a problem? Maybe it was when he started coming home very late, or not coming home at all. Maybe it was when he brought his buddies over, and every single one of them brought a mistress, but none of them brought their wives. Maybe it was when the wives of other construction bosses hinted, "That group of guys, not a single one is decent." In my memory, from a very young age, my mom was always depressed. She was a shrewd businesswoman, knowing exactly what to say to different people, always keeping clients happy. But when it came to her marriage, she was insecure yet fierce. The only times she and my dad could have a normal conversation were when they were doing the books and making money. At all other times, they couldn't stand the sight of each other. My dad complained that my mom wasn't feminine enough, her voice was too loud, she wasn't gentle, she liked making her own decisions, and she had an "old" face. My mom called my dad a cheating bastard who messed around outside and would eventually get what was coming to him. The conflict finally erupted when I was 5. One night, I suddenly ran a high fever, burning up until I started convulsing. My dad wasn't home, and he had taken the car. My mom called him, wanting him to come back and take me to the hospital, but he didn't pick up. Back then, Uber didn't exist. To get around at night, you had to rely on cabs. But the area we lived in was an undeveloped suburb; it was desolate at night, and you couldn't flag down a cab to save your life. Eventually, my mom had to call her friend. The friend and her husband drove over and took me to the ER. My mom didn't give up. She stayed by my hospital bed, calling my dad off and on all night. It was as if my dad was dead. Every call disappeared into the void. The next morning, my mom finally gave up. She put her phone down, grabbed her purse, and went to buy breakfast. Coincidentally, as soon as she left, her phone rang. The caller ID showed my dad. I answered the phone. Before I could even say "Dad," a female voice on the other end unleashed a torrent of rage: "Over a hundred calls in one night!" "Mary, will you die without a man?! What the hell are you calling for?" "Your husband didn't even answer your calls, don't you get the message? Let go already, honey. Forcing it won't make you happy!" I frowned, considering my words: "Ma'am, I'm sick." The other side froze for a second, then continued the barrage: "Oh, it's the money-losing mistake! Where's your mom? Did she jump off a building because your dad didn't answer her calls?" "Let me tell you something! Your dad stopped loving your mom a long time ago, and he doesn't love you either!" "Right now, he only loves me and your little brother. All the money, the houses, the cars in your family—they all belong to me and your brother now." I was young, I didn't fully understand, and I spoke with the unfiltered innocence of a child. "So, Ma'am, are you a robber?" "Only robbers steal other people's things, and robbers get beaten up by superheroes!" She sneered: "Where in the world are there superheroes?" I cried: "But there are police officers! You're a bad lady, the police will lock you up!" ... Later, my mom came back. Seeing me sulking, and noticing the call log showing my dad's number had called back, she asked me several times what happened. I burst out crying. "There's a bad lady who said Daddy doesn't love us anymore!" "She said Daddy only loves her and my little brother, and she said everything in our family belongs to her!" I cried so hard I couldn't catch my breath. My mom hugged me, patting my back, and stayed silent for a long time. "Mommy is going to divorce Daddy. Sweetie, will you stay with Mommy?" "Yes." 3 During the few days I was in the hospital, my dad didn't come to see me once. My mom called him often. Although she deliberately avoided me, when she couldn't suppress her temper, phrases like "bastard," "I'm taking two-thirds of the assets or I'll drag this out until you die," and "you're worse than a dog, go to hell" still reached my ears. I secretly cried. How could a child my age understand a mother's pain? I was terrified of not having a father anymore. This was the first time I experienced loss, but I didn't tell my mom, and I certainly didn't cry in front of her. I vaguely knew what divorce meant, knew that between my dad and mom, I could only choose one, and knew that my mom loved me more. I don't know what my mom and dad discussed, but she was always fuming. Seven days later. My mom discharged me from the hospital. She marched out proudly, like a warrior... but we could never return to our old home. My grandma was standing on the balcony. Seeing us walking up to the building, she threw open the window. "Sarah, come here quick!" My mom froze and looked up. A few seconds later, a familiar woman appeared in our line of sight. It was my mom's cousin! She smirked triumphantly at my mom, then joined my grandma to haul two unzipped duffel bags and throw them down. Toothbrushes, slippers, clothes, bras, sanitary pads... Clattering and fluttering down, scattering everywhere. I saw my mom's jaw clench tight, her face flushed with embarrassment. A moment later— Her anger overpowered her embarrassment. She put her hands on her hips and screamed up at the balcony: "Sarah, are you even human? Are all the men in the world dead? You actually stole your own cousin's husband!" "Robert and I haven't even signed the divorce papers yet! And you just couldn't wait! Shameless! Spit!" "When I go back, I'm telling your mother! I'm telling the whole town! You homewrecker!"... Sarah and my grandma tag-teamed their response: "Ugly bitch, look at your face! Robert says he wants to puke just looking at you!" "You useless cow who can't even produce a son! Get the hell out! If it weren't for Sarah, our Carter family bloodline would have ended with a jinx like you!" "Someone like you still has the nerve to talk about going back to the town?! Go back and ask around, if you can't have a son, shouldn't you be dumped?!"... Amidst the screaming match, a little boy about my age ran out of the living room. Holding a toy submachine gun, he stood on a small stool and fired a barrage of pellets right at us. Back then, the bullets in toy guns weren't water beads; they were hard plastic BBs that hurt like hell when they hit you. My arms and neck were hit several times. My mom shielded me and we ducked under a low tree. "Where are they? Where did they go?" "Over there!" "I see them! Old hag! Money-losing mistake! I'm gonna shoot you dead!"... With the leaves buffering the impact, the bullets didn't hurt as much. The leaves rustled and fell. My mom ground her teeth in rage. "You little bastard, if you've got the guts, get a real gun and shoot us!" The toy gun could only hold so many bullets. When the magazine was empty, it had to be reloaded. My mom took advantage of the reloading time upstairs, grabbed a rock from the ground, and charged upstairs like a hurricane. I copied her, picking up a rock and following right on her heels. 4 The front door was a heavy security door. Made of steel. That bastard of a dad had actually changed the locks. My mom couldn't open the door with her key. She dropped the rock, hitched up her skirt, and delivered a vicious kick right at the lock. The steel door let out a deafening "CLANG." Then came the second kick, the third... The clanging echoed endlessly, feeling like an earthquake. My grandma and Sarah were cursing from inside; my mom was kicking from outside. Neighbors upstairs and downstairs kept opening their doors, asking loudly, "What's going on? What's going on? Are you going to let people live in peace?" "Nobody's living in peace today! The older cousin stole the younger cousin's husband and brought him right into the house! They even changed the locks! Have they no shame?" "That is shameless," someone upstairs agreed. Eventually, the local police arrived. My mom tearfully complained to the officers. After calming her down and ensuring she was stable, the police knocked on the door. My mom was fierce. The moment the door cracked open, she bolted inside, grabbed a stool, and smashed it right at Sarah. "BANG!" The plastic stool shattered, and a jagged gash appeared on Sarah's arm. Blood dripped down onto the floor. Everyone froze. A second later, Sarah bent down, snatched up a heavy glass ashtray, and charged at my mom, screaming "Go to hell!" My mom swung the stool again. The police officers quickly split up—half restraining my mom, half holding back Sarah. I took advantage of the chaos, grabbed the rock I had picked up, and charged at the little boy. That little brat had just shot me, and it still hurt! I was covered in welts! Desperate to protect her grandson, my grandma shoved the boy aside, snatched his toy gun, grabbed me with one hand, and swung the heavy plastic gun down hard on my arm with the other. "Smack! Smack! Smack!" The violent impact on my arm knocked the magazine loose, sending BBs scattering all over the floor. My arm felt like it was broken. My grandma struck me three times in the exact same spot. It hurt so much I could only inhale, forgetting how to exhale. My face spasmed, and it took a long time before I could finally cry out. I don't know where my mom found the strength, but she broke free from the cops, shoved my grandma aside, rushed over, grabbed me, and carefully checked my arm. "Sweetie, are you okay? Can you move it? How about this? How about this?" "It hurts..." I burst out crying, "Mommy, it hurts so much!" The police told my mom to stop moving my arm. Without professional training, she might make the injury worse. Getting to the hospital immediately was the priority. My mom's eyes were like daggers, violently glaring at my grandma. "Martha! She's your own granddaughter! If there's any permanent damage, I'll kill you!" My grandma had never seen my mom like this. She involuntarily shivered, then stiffened her neck: "She deserved it! She started it! She was trying to hit my precious baby!" "A grandson is a precious baby, and a daughter is just weeds?! Martha, you're a woman yourself, why don't you go jump off a bridge?! You better pray she's okay, otherwise..." Before my mom could finish her threat, the police urged, "Enough talking. Get to the hospital first. We'll give you a ride!" 5 In just one day, I had left the hospital only to return to it. My bone wasn't completely broken, but it was fractured. The doctor put a cast on my arm and told me to rest. My dad still hadn't shown up. My mom was furious, crying and cursing over the phone. I kept hearing the word "animal." My mom couldn't understand how a man could be so ruthless. His own biological daughter had suffered such a severe injury, and he completely ignored it, refusing to even come take a look. "Mommy, our clothes and shoes are still downstairs at the apartment. Should we go get them?" "Yes," my mom said. "If we don't, people will scavenge them or throw them away as trash." As she spoke, her eyes reddened. A mix of stubbornness and grievance wove into suppressed anger. "We're poor now. We don't have extra money to buy everything new. You stay here in the hospital and be good. I'll get our things and come right back." I nodded, telling her not to worry. My mom was gone for a long time that day. Or maybe it just felt like a long time because I was alone in the hospital. I was terrified... Terrified she would go looking for my grandma for revenge, terrified she couldn't fight them all off alone, terrified she'd be at a disadvantage, terrified she'd get hurt. I was also terrified she didn't want me anymore... If I hadn't tried to hit that little boy, my arm wouldn't have been fractured, we wouldn't have had to spend money. I was afraid she'd think I was a burden and just leave me in the hospital alone. The massive anxiety made my whole body tense up. Like a frightened quail, my eyes stayed glued to the hospital room door. If only I were a boy. Then my grandparents wouldn't despise me, my dad wouldn't find another woman to have kids with, my mom wouldn't be abandoned... We'd be like the happy families on TV. Thankfully, my mom finally returned, carrying two large duffel bags. The bags were filthy, and the things inside were dirty too. My mom said we lost some things, but it didn't matter. Being able to salvage most of it was lucky enough. I noticed my mom's eyes were much redder than when she left. I guessed she had cried outside. "Mommy, I'll be good." I said it out of nowhere, but my mom understood. She walked over to the bed and hugged me. "Things will get better." "We won't live like stray dogs forever!" From that day on, my mom changed. She stopped calling my dad, stopped screaming hysterically. She took a pen and paper and calmly calculated all of our family's assets. She started smoking. In the dark, I often saw her standing on the hospital balcony, her hair blowing in the night breeze, the ember of her cigarette glowing and fading between her fingers. Her loneliness was just like the cigarette in her hand. 6 In those days, in the eyes of rural country folk, divorce was a disgraceful thing. "Don't wash your dirty linen in public." If someone had to divorce, the best option was to do it quietly. The couple would quietly sign the papers, and no one besides their parents would know. My mom insisted on suing for a contested divorce. She demanded that the husband leave with nothing, and she gets full custody of the daughter. My dad completely lost his mind. Previously, he wouldn't call for weeks; now, he called several times a day. He played the good cop, talking about the bond they shared over the years, telling my mom not to go too far, that everything was negotiable. He even said he wanted to come see us and asked where my mom was staying. My grandma played the bad cop. She called my mom a shameless bitch, saying she couldn't give birth to a son, couldn't keep her man, and was useless! She asked if my mom was trying to take my dad's money to find another man. She said all the money in the family was earned by my dad, implying my mom would do anything for cash... My mom unleashed her fury: "Son, son, all you care about is a son! Are you running a royal dynasty?" "Your ancestors worked the dirt for generations, your family is dirt poor, and you still want multiple wives and a male heir! Let me tell you, the 1800s are over!" "The government has been saying for decades that boys and girls are equal. Are you deaf? Monogamy is written into the law! Are you trying to break the law?" "Every cent Robert Carter owns is marital property! Every cent he spent on Sarah is also marital property!" "Robert is the at-fault party in this marriage, and he deserves to be punished! The money, the house, they're all mine! If you dare harass me again, don't blame me for going after every single dime he spent on Sarah!" My mom used to act very submissive in the Carter family. Though she had stood up for herself once, it always seemed forced. This time was different. With the law backing her up, my mom spoke on the phone with incredible confidence. I was young and barely understood, but I thought my mom was shining brightly. My grandma was probably terrified by my mom. She stopped calling and instead reached out to my great-uncle and great-aunt. Sarah's parents. They kept emphasizing that we were all relatives, telling my mom not to be so ruthless! They said my maternal grandparents still lived in the same town, and everyone saw everyone else eventually, their words carrying a veiled threat. My mom sat on a folding stool on the balcony, took a drag from her cigarette, and slowly exhaled the smoke: "Sure. Have Sarah write a 10,000-word apology detailing exactly how she seduced her cousin's husband, how she got pregnant with a married man's child, and how she used her status as a mistress to kick the legal wife out of her own home..." "When she's done, show it to me. If I'm satisfied, have her go to the town's radio station and read it ten times a day for a whole month. If she does that, I won't go after the money Robert spent on her!" My great-uncle and his wife had no idea that "reclaiming marital assets" was a legal possibility. On the other end of the line, they screamed in panic: "What?!" "You want the money Robert already spent? You love money so much, why don't you just go rob a bank?" "Sarah is the hero who gave the Carter family an heir! All the Carter family's money belongs to her! We earn our living with honest work, why should we do whatever you say?" "You can't even keep your own man, and you have the nerve to fight for the assets? How did our family produce such a disgrace like you?" My mom laughed coldly: "Exactly. How did our family produce disgraces like you? You act like thieves and homewreckers, and you're proud of it!" "Let me tell you, I won't give up a single cent that belongs to me! Your daughter and grandson can prepare to sleep under a bridge!" 7 To win this lawsuit, my mom hired a lawyer and prepared meticulously. This included recording their phone calls over the past few weeks, gathering evidence of my dad's long-term infidelity, and documenting my grandma assaulting me and kicking us out of the house... On my dad's side, whether it was overconfidence or just no lawyer wanting to take their case, they represented themselves the entire time. Their core argument was singular: Everyone in the country town does this. Assets should go to the son. Continuing the family line is more important than anything else. They caused a huge scene in the courtroom. One minute they were calling my mom a jinx, saying she didn't dress up or look pretty, ruining my dad's luck, so she deserved to be thrown out. The next minute, they called me a money-losing mistake, demanding to know why I should get any of the money my dad earned. My dad was legally the at-fault party to begin with, their arguments were completely absurd, and on top of that, the judge that day was female, and the court clerk was also female. The outcome of the lawsuit was obvious. Whether it was the business, the real estate, or the savings, it was all awarded to my mom. My grandma refused to accept it. She threw herself onto the floor, kicked her legs out, and rolled around like a dying bug. "This is an outrage! The judge was bribed! Where can an old woman like me find justice?" "My son worked hard his whole life, and now he doesn't get a single penny. Aren't you trying to kill us?" "Waaah, if you don't change the verdict, I'll never get up! I'm going to stay right here!"... The judge stopped, gave her a long look, and walked right out. A few moments later, the bailiffs "escorted" my grandma out. She howled the whole way, vowing to protest outside the courthouse every single day. My mom and her lawyer were talking nearby, looking at my grandma like she was an absolute idiot. "You jinx! Don't think just because you won the lawsuit that the house is yours! If you want that house, you'll have to step over my dead body!" My mom smiled and said she wouldn't dare. My grandma felt triumphant again and threw another tantrum right outside the courthouse doors. After the bailiffs gave her another stern lecture on the law, she stopped causing a scene, dragged my dad over, puffed out her cheeks, and sat right in the middle of the main entrance in silent protest. "What do you plan to do?" the lawyer asked my mom. "Help her out, of course," my mom said, still smiling, her eyes filled with an emotion I couldn't read. "The old lady has it tough."
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